


Flinch

by KNSkns



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 11:01:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10333190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KNSkns/pseuds/KNSkns
Summary: They all managed, now here they all are.  What good is survival, if you don't know what to do after you survive? Starbuck's POV.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set Season3, with spoilers up to and including. Originally posted 03/2014.

Disclaimer: We all know none of this is mine. None. That includes the quotes.

 

[If I could go back, I'd run.  
~ George C. Jones]

It doesn't take a genius to see Raiders screaming overhead and know, just know, that they're fraked. Completely 100% fraked. All of them.

Well, it's not the first time.

The Chief is staring at the sky, looks like he can't decide if he should curse or cry. She whaps him sharply across the shoulder, and he looks at her with clouded eyes. “Go get the guns. Whatever you can find. Hide them good. Now!”

Automatically Tyrl answers, “Yessir.” Turns, breaks into a run, dodges away among the tents.

Gentle Calle is looking after the disappearing husband. The former knuckle-dragger is waddle-pregnant, may actually have the baby right now because of the awfulness of what's happening. To the soon-mother she says, “Go home. You'll be safe, your baby will be safe – remember what the toasters think about babies? You'll be one of the safest people here.”

Unlike the rest of them.

Calle wants desperately to believe. Desperately. It's so easy to read the wide brown eyes. Eyes that had reflected a tough but viable future, but now, don't. “ 'Kay,” Calle mumbles. “Okay.”

She'd love to have a few minutes to reassure Miss Brown Eyes. Really, she would. Too bad. She has to go find others, make sure at least a few important things get done. She's heard Lee talking to Dee while the line was still open. Apollo is still royally pissed at her (even after months of apologies and peace offerings.) But he'd never abandon her or any of them to the Cylons. And the Old Man is definitely aiming everything at the toaster Baseships, blowing them to hell right now. It'll take everything from everyone to get out of this hole.

Turning, she dodges between tents, the opposite way the Chief had gone. Her steps turn awkwardly in the sand. A river used to be here, but it's gone now. The last sand she'd sprinted across had been a beach on Caprica, and that'd been a few years back.

Dodge, curve, bend around corners – gods, she just wants to get to Sam and stuff one of her last/only guns under his pillow. . . even a really really sick man who really really needs antibiotics can pull a trigger. . .

What she blindly finds around another corner makes her stumble-stop, almost trip in the stupid sand.

“Hello, Kara.”

Arrogant smile, too-shiny eyes with a super dose of crazy: Leoben. The toaster she'd interrogated for hours on end, the one she'd watched beaten/almost drowned/spaced out an airlock. Maybe – maybe he's just guessing at her identity: last time she'd had short hair and a cane and a royally pissed-off bone to pick with any Cylon who crossed her path.

“It's so good to see you again, Kara.” He's smiling at her, still crazy as all get out, she can tell.

She's never run from a fight in her whole life. It's bitter sand-gritty to have to do it now. More important things to do right now. Later she'll find a way to kick his nutcase ass. Right on her heels she spins around, starts to race the other way.

Another Leoben steps from a tent-shadow. “Don't run, Kara. It's just me. I'm here to help you.”

“Frak off,” she snarls. Pivots, scrambles in yet another direction. Barely gets a handful of steps away before – yep – another madman. Gods, why do they always smile?

The Leoben chides, “You know better. Now we get to spend some more time together.”

This just ain't gonna end well. She's stuck among tents and Leobens. Oh, and Centurions behind them. Super. Well, she's been in worse spots. Lots of times. Right? Right.

“It'll be fun.” Behind her now. Much, much too close. She reaches for the first thing she can grab: a tent stake. Short but pointy sharp, better than nothing. But she knows the odds are against her. Bluff – it's all she can do. And kill the ones she can.

What's coming next? Safe bet is something to do with water and a bucket.

_______________________________ 

 

[. . . no rethinking anything  
as a matter of fact  
no thinking  
period.  
~ Hakim Bellamy, from “Literacy Test”]

 

It's seven shades of wrong. Really – she has to be trapped in her own apartment? It's dressed up and pretty-clean now, no paintings splashed over the walls, no empty boxes of take-out and cigars and booze bottles. But it's still the same place. Sharp stairs. View of a parking lot. Slanted sunlight that equals merciless sun in the summer and darkness in the winter. Gods, she never really liked the place to begin with. Now she frakin' hates it.

Of course, Mr. Loony Leoben is makin' everything worse.

“I've seen your path, Kara. I want to help you accept it.”

Hmm. She's going to help him understand things, too. Give new meaning to the word “accept.”

He puts food on the table that she hasn't seen since Caprica's fall. The water is invisible clear (water on this world is never never less than cloudy.) Even little parsley leaves for garnish and slices of lemon for taste. It's all poisoned, she knows it, and he knows she knows it.

Frak, but a few days and nights make her eye the shiny red apples with longing. She has to bend her defiance of water; she scorns the pitcher on the table, will only cup her hands and drink from the kitchen sink. It still tastes way better than it should.

Leoben smiles at her like Sam does. Playful and sweet and with great kindness. It makes her want to rip out his crazy eyes and use them to shoot marbles.

The large, viewless windows are made of shatter-proof glass. The bathroom mirror resists all forms of fracturing. Nothing sharp to fight with. Gods, she'd kill for one butter-knife. (She's kill with one butter-knife.)

She has plenty of time to make plans. The toaster leaves for hours on end. So she tests everything, searching for just a little something to swat his brains out with.

Inglorious as it is, a potted plant is the easiest/fastess weapon she can find. Never did like plants in the house, but now, she's almost grateful. All she has to do is wait for him to step off the last stair step, then throw it at his head. When he ducks, she's already there to push him off-balance, bounces his skull against a concrete stair before he has a chance to blink. Head wounds bleed like hell. It's nice to see.

But there aren't any keys in his pockets and the front door (only door) is still bolted closed. She's so pissed, she dips her fingers in his blood and writes on the wall: frak you.

Surprise, surprise – crazy toaster comes back.

“We're not enemies, Kara. I've seen our futures together.”

She loathes the way he says her name, uses it like they're old friends.

When he comes back to the hell-house, every night, she sits on the couch and waits/stares/watches/waits for daybreak to come. Never, never sleeps when he's around. Tries to sleep as little as possible, period.

She could do this forever. And she will.

And it doesn't take long to figure out the entire joint is under surveillance every instant of every minute always. Suspected that from the start, actually, but soon has real proof.

Behind one of the wall paintings, she makes a strike mark for every night that passes. She's not going to let him have anything, certainly not her time. A week into the counting – when she pulls down the painting, her strike marks have been painted over. Gone, not even a mismatched swatch of wall. It's annoying irritating frustrating, pisses her off even more. Not least of all because she can't figure out when they got erased. She finds a new hiding place on the carpet under the couch, starts over. Four days later, those are gone, too. Again she tries. Again she's thwarted. Bastard madman.

She uses her thumbnail to make little, deep slices over her left ankle. Every day she pulls off the scabs,  
makes each one bleed anew.

=======

[. . . the question for me is  
how long can i cling to this edge?  
~ Lucille Clifton, from “further note to clark”]

 

Days or weeks into the joyride, Leoben comes back with a datapad and a soft frown. She just sits on the couch, waits for whatever's coming next.

“I have sad news,” Leoben says, making his voice sound genuinely sad. He hands her the datapad. When she refuses to take it, he sets it on the couch beside her. He sits down across from her.

“Adama came back for you,” he tells her. “For all of you. A few Raptors made it away, of course – went back to wherever the rest of the Fleet is hiding. But the ships...” He shakes his head, shifts his eyes away. “They fought well. With a lot of heart.”

She doesn't even bother to call him a liar; she knows it's splashed all over her face. She even laughs a little.

“I didn't think you'd believe me.” He gestures towards the datapad. “Look.”

Annoying and unimaginative. But eventually she yanks it up and looks.

It's amazingly fantastic to watch Pegasus and Galactica shoot the hell out of the Baseships – really, it is. It makes her want to dance. But – the picture starts to change. The screen gradually starts to show fewer Vipers, more Raiders. More hits on the Fleet ships, fewer hits on the Baseships. Less of her side and more of his. When the Pegasus explodes, she manages a little laugh. When the Galactica turns into a thousand itty-bitty stars, she makes herself roll her eyes.

“You really think I don't know all this is a fake?” she says. But she thinks – maybe. Maybe? No. No way.

Leoben shakes his head. “No, I didn't. But, Kara, I love you, and you deserved to know.”

She scowls, stands up and walks a few steps like she's going to walk past him to look out the window. At the last second she whips around and smashes the datapad into the toaster's face. Twice, three times, more, until he's flopped like a dead fish on the couch. The blood will never come out of the upholstery. 

It doesn't make the images fade, even when she closes her eyes really tight.

And then he returns.

“I'm a patient man,” he tells her. “Change takes time. So does loss.”

Now there are three straight rows around her lower left leg. When she pulls off the scabs, it takes longer for the bleeding to stop.

There's no one to talk to but Leoben. She's started talking to the plant. At least it doesn't watch her with a lover's eyes. Or watch every inch she moves with the madness of insanity.

Minimal sleeping, minimal eating. Constant push-ups and running up and down the stairs.

All her dreams are about brilliantly exploding ships.

Scabs and scabs later, Leoben again comes “home” with what passes for reluctance and sadness. She sits on the couch and waits. What lie this time.

“Kara, I'm so sorry,” he says softly. He walks past her, sets something on the dinning-room table. Then he moves away, back towards the stairs. Halfway up, he glances down at her and says, “If it's any consolation, he was comfortable, at the end. He said he loved you, and that he was sorry.” He goes up the stairs, leaves. The lock clicks loudly into place.

She stands and goes to the table. Slowly picks up the thing, holds it up in the sunlight.

A ring and a dogtag on a metal chain.

“Sammy,” she mumbles. She closes her hand around them. The tag cuts into her hand, doesn't break the skin.

“I know it's a lie,” she shouts to wherever the surveillance might be. “You hear me? I know it's a fake!”

But she doesn't. She can't, not for sure. And if it's true. . . What if it is? No more Sam. No more Lee. No more Old Man or Helo. Just the not-knowing is such a strain, there are tears in her eyes.

It's probably not true, any of it. She's had a Cylon lie to her before about Sam's death. They're not even all that creative with their lies.

But – 

She refuses to cry. Not one tear.

It isn't true.

(Unless it is.)

+++++++

 

[we're going to pretend   
the day you lose  
your faith in people  
doesn't feel  
like a broken heart  
~Hakim Bellamy, from “The Pits”]

 

It's so quiet when she's alone. The plant doesn't ever say anything. No sounds come from the outside. She entertains herself with exercise, memories, and plans for revenge. Escape dreams she only lets herself think about once a day.

She likes to think about different ways to slaughter Leoben.

_Do not flinch,_ Admiral Cain had told her.

She hasn't, and won't.

The bathroom door doesn't have a lock. At least the towels are soft. She only showers when Leoben's gone for the day, makes it quick despite the appeasing warm water that encourages her to linger.

She's barely shut off the water when she turns, finds Leoben standing just a few steps back. He hands her the towel.

“You look so beautiful,” he says, smiling.

She ignores him, takes the towel.

It's the same couch she sits on all night that she sleeps on during the day. A pillow and blanket she's willing to accept, although it costs her in pride. She abhors taking anything, everything, but it takes so much frakin' energy to fight off every single little thing. . .

More than once she's jerked awake, finds Leoben's smiling face mere inches from her own.

“It's another new day,” he tells her. “A day for you to accept God's will. Accept your destiny.”

No flinching.

Once she wakes up to see him sleeping on the couch across from her. Madman came “home” early: the sun is still slinking across the grey sullen sky. She didn't even hear him come in. Slowly slowly she gets up holding her pillow. Creeps over to him so silently. Brings the side of her fist down on his temple, uses the pillow to smoother him.

Too soon she hears the door unlock.

“Kara, how many times are we going to do this?”

“Lots,” she snarls. But even she's starting to wonder.

It's so quiet when she's alone.

++++

[What in our despair  
we suppose is the real (or,  
worse, the only) world.  
~ David Salvitt, from “Readers”]

Four rings around her leg, and she stops. Not really a point to it. She doesn't spend hours looking out the window at the one slice of sky, trying to remember why flying in clouds and stars is like. Lets herself drink as much water as she wants, even with a slice of lemon now and then.

Push-ups. Stairs. Crunches. Punching pillows.

She works to the point of exhaustion, because it's better than thinking about the zillion ways she coulda shoulda avoid this entire fiasco.

Quietly she starts to wonder if there ever really was any life but this one. Did she ever really fly a Viper, be master of the stars because she was the best? Maybe – maybe she just made up the way the Old Man had looked at her with kind tolerance, even when she was in hack (again.) Lee is a person she made up because she was bored. Sam was a guy she made up. Helo died a long time back on a nuked-out Caprica.

Caprica – she'd lived there. Right?

Grass is green, mornings can be brilliant.

Occasionally Leoben's shoes track in a few grains of sand. When she finds them, she puts them in her palm and thinks about how hard it is to keep tent stakes in place when you live on a dead river.

Pyramid balls are round and hard, make a clang when they hit the goal. She'd known a famous Pyramid player, once.

Training pilots can be fun. If nothing else, they have to call you God. Just don't pass them if they don't qualify.

Sometimes she fraks up and gets forgiven. She can make up for it, if she really tries. Or forget about it, if she really drinks enough.

Every once in awhile, someone goes looking for her if she disappears.

All her memories get hazy, after awhile. It gets to a point where she can't separate what happened, what never happened, what might have happened.

She's pretty sure it doesn't matter, anyway. If this wasn't always her life, it's been a long time.

Thinking about ways to kill Leoben never gets old – even if she kinda forgets what ways she's already tried.

+++++++

[Let us now celebrate what may or may not be true.  
Let us now celebrate the lies  
that should be true because they tell us so much.  
Let us now celebrate apocrypha.  
~Sherman Alexie, from “Open Books”]

 

It's possible. She was locked up in that facility on Caprica. Helo and the non-Boomer had a kid. And the Cylons are nothing if not persistent.

The kid Leoben dumps on her might actually be hers. Genetically, anyway. But she's never been fit to care for a plant, certainly not a kid. And she doesn't have any kinda feeling for the blond brat – if she's the real mother, wouldn't she?

The madman claims he's the father. The father of her child. It's disgusting revolting horrifying. And possible.

Frak all of it. She doesn't give a frak what happens to the little brat.

Until she does. Until she sees such a frail little thing mashed onto concrete steps, a puddle of blood around her golden curls. Then, right then, she's not too proud to yell demand plead for help.

The surveillance cameras don't fail her. Leoben and Leoben and a few more Leobens come carrying medical supplies, monitors. Even a Simon shows up. How long since she's seen anyone except Leoben? And the quiet quiet little girl. She's almost pathetically grateful.

She sits at the little girl's bedside and thinks about her mother. Remembers how her mother had cursed her father for leaving them, thrown out every little thing he'd ever touched (including the forlorn piano standing in the corner.) Considers the way she'd been responsible for her own care once she was tall enough to reach the doorbolt. She'd dropped a pan of boiling water, splashed some on her foot – punishment for not concentrating on what she'd been doing. Gods, those little splash burns had hurt for weeks. 

At some hazy point she realizes Little Golden Curls is hers. Really hers. She won't be like her mother, won't do the same mistakes again. If – if she can just have one more chance. She'll do better, she promises. She won't even curse the madman who's the child's father, no matter how much she hates hates hates him.

Kacey opens soft child eyes. She's never wanted a kid but she has one now. Godsdamnit, she's going to do right by the girl. Starting right now.

Everything has to be learned from scratch: mealtime, naptime, playing simple games. Kacey smiles all the time, shows her how to stack blocks and laugh when they fall down.

She knows she can't get the girl out of the hell-house. Sitting on the edge of the bed, watching Katey's even breathing, she glances through the window and wonders if she should even try. Of course she should – who wants a lunatic for a father? But she'd missed her own father when she was a little girl, so. . .

Dealing with Leoben's insanity gets – easier. She still hates him, but he's impressively kind to Kasey. Brings her toys and playthings almost every day. Kasey smiles at him and gives him a child's kiss every once in awhile. It – it isn't so bad as it was before Kasey came.

The Insurgency has been going on for (hopefully) a long time. She gave up rescue before Kasey ever came along. Better that way, because very quietly she'd known no one was ever going to find her. Who would even try? Everyone she'd ever loved is dead. But the day the Insurgency really fights back, crazy reckless hope takes a strangle-hold around her heart. She might maybe be able to get Kasey out of here.

Gods, it's all she wants, and she'll do whatever to make it happen.

++++++++

 

[Though our crazy hearts may rave  
And insist it isn't so,  
We know there's nothing we can save. . .  
~ Charles Pratt, from “In Drumcliffe Churchyard”]

 

The Raptor's can-crammed full of former New Caprica residents. She knows most of them are looking at her and the blond girl sitting on her lap. It's going to take a good story and some fast talking to explain Kasey. There were certain details she'd kept out of her first trip back to Caprica, minor points like an extra operation. Doesn't matter – no one's going to look too close. Who could possibly look into Kasey's bright eyes and care about details.

Those bright eyes are fastened on the pilots, and the stars beyond. It may not really be Kasey's first trip off-planet, but she's going to pretend it is. She smiles. “Like the pretty stars?”

Kasey laughs a little. “Stas,” the girl says.

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Leoben's hand reaching for the girl. It's taken less time than usual for the bastard to come back. She grabs his wrist before he can touch the girl.

But when she looks again it's not Leoben, it's Sam. Her Sam, the one who's been dead but now isn't. What's the look on his face? She's been watching insanity so long, it's hard to recognize anything else.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, confused, lets his wrist go. Turns her eyes quickly back to Miss Golden Curls.

Kasey's looking over her shoulder at Sam.

“Hey, little one,” Sam says gently.

She glances at him. “Kasey.”

Sam smiles. “Hey, Kasey.”

The girl blinks at him. Then bright eyes turn back to her. “Da?”

She tightens her arms around the child, whispers in the girl's ear, “No more Da. Just you and me. Look at the stars – aren't they pretty?”

Kasey is easily distracted.

Now she knows she's being watched. No one says anything. She feels like daring them to say something, but doesn't, for Kasey's sake.

The Raptor lands with a jostle on the hanger deck. The girl quickly looks up at her.

“We're home now,” she explains. But where is home? Maybe it's just wherever she is at the moment. Where she wants it to be.

The Raptor door slowly swings open. There are people everywhere, smiles and tears and hugs. There aren't any strangers here. Just people who managed to escape their yesterdays. She and Kasey are the first ones out of the Raptor. The girl's eyes are everywhere, watching all the chaos with an almost serenity. Wise child. She sets the girl down on the wing, helps tiny feet make their first way onto Galactica. 

Kasey laughs. She does too, swings the girl back onto her hip.

It's oddly perfect that Tyrl is the one who notices them first. Last time she'd seen him, he'd been racing off to hide weapons. Four months – that many? That few? She's almost giddy, so proud to introduce her beautiful little girl.

But – then – 

Kasey's mother. Her real mother.

Not some fraked-up ex-Viper pilot stupid chick who fell for a Cylon trick. Not some idiot woman who couldn't escape from one insane toaster. Who couldn't keep track of passing days. Who couldn't figure out she'd been swallowing lies one after another after another.

Who was stupid enough to think anything so beautiful and frail was hers. Who had wanted someone so badly. Who flinched when it really mattered.

Kasey is smiling. The girl's real mother moves into the cheering crowd, takes Kasey into the swirling mass of survivors.

She can't help it, reaches after the girl. Yanks her hand back like it's been smacked. Months and months of holding out against away for what? This?

Smile. Everything's fine. Don't cry. She hasn't lost Kasey because Kasey was never hers to begin with. Smile. No one will know if she doesn't tell them. Act normal. Don't cry.

“Kara.” It's Sam, watching her with questions and worry.

What the frak is she supposed to say? For an instant she's on the verge of saying everything, talk talk talk until her voice gives out and there's nothing left to say. But she blinks, and the impulse quickly dies.

Cheers. Chants praising the Old Man (who isn't dead and Sam isn't dead and Lee and Dee and Helo and blah blah blah – )

Under it all she hears Kasey laughing.

Gods – 

++++++

[what entered the light was one man.  
what walked out is another.  
~ Lucille Clifton, from “lazarus”]

 

This is the best thing about being out of the hell-house: she can have a knife all the time. Bed, shower, flightsuit, mess. All the time. Now and then she'll hold it, slowly turn it in her hands. Feel the weight, the balance. Test the tip against her finger. Watch light dully reflect against the blade.

She'd had Admiral Cain's folding knife, once. It's back on New Caprica now (along with a few other things.) Maybe Leoben has it, watches it the way he'd watched her. She hopes it cuts him when he's not paying attention.

Everyone she knew here died a long time ago. And a long time ago she learned it's not a good idea to go lookin' for ghosts. So she doesn't. They come to her.

The Old Man. He smiles on her like she's a child. Vaguely she wonders why. “What do you hear, Starbuck?”

She listens, doesn't hear anything but shuffling feet and lowered voices. “Just the normal stuff.”

He looks a question at her.

Oops. Wrong answer. “Oh yeah – nothin' but the rain. Sir.” She's almost forgotten how to use titles.

Then Helo. “Good to see you,” he tells her. Grins like a schoolboy. “Bet you gave those Cylon bastards hell.”

There had definitely been her and hell and bastards. Not wrong about that.

Even Apollo shows up. The look he gives her is like the one he'd use on a Viper: a once-over for obvious damage and missing parts. “Looks like you're in one piece. You're going back into the rotation.”

She thinks that he looks different, not the same old Lee. But then, most of her memories are a little fuzzy around the edges.

The worst part is dealing with Sam. Maybe not the very worst part, but close. He looks at her, watches her like Leoben does. Did. She doesn't say that out loud. He wants to talk to her or her to talk to him. She actually misses the house-plant. Doesn't say that out loud, either. Or that being near him sets her so on edge, it's like waiting for an explosion. The way she'd waited for Leoben to come back after one of her various murders, knowing the door was going to open any minute and he'd walk calmly down the stairs.

Each officer returning to duty is ordered to submit a summary account of their locations and activities during the Occupation. She's got no desire to be singled out, noticed in any way, so she does what she's told.

_Time spent during the Occupation: played house with a Cylon. No corroboration available._

Must be good enough because no one comes looking for more.

She does get stopped in the corridor. People everywhere, men and women and children. But she's the one who gets noticed. Damn, she's tired of being special.

It's one of the (former ship known as) Pegasus' Raptor pilots. Short brown hair and fair skin – what's the name? Skids? Skips? 

“And where were you, Captain?” Skids demands. The woman's brown eyes have dark shadows.

She shrugs a little, starts to walk away. “Same as you. Down at the party on New Caprica.”

Skids isn't satisfied with that answer (of course.) The pilot blocks her path. She doesn't need to look behind her to see Skids has a few buddies. She thinks about the knife she has strapped to her leg. But other people have stopped to watch the show, some of them kids. (Civilians – they're called civilians.)

“You see, Captain, no one remembers where you went when the toasters showed up.” Skids tilts her head. “Maybe you were with Baltar, doing a little collaborating?” 

That's kinda funny. It makes her laugh. “You know – who are you again? Anyway – I learned two very important things during those months. Number one: you really can kill a toaster if you have the right information.” She's thinking about Leoben's face and the datapad showing Galactica's destruction. She steps closer to the other pilot, adds softly, “Number two: Cylon blood makes a pretty good steak sauce.” Then she winks.

Skids manages to produce a genuine look of disbelief/horror. It's kinda fun to see.

She continues walking down the now silent corridor. Eyes are watching her, but voices are still. She hums a happy tune to break the silence.

And as hours scamper by she learns something else: she can't stand being alone. Hates it hates it hates it. And she can't stand stand being with people. Despises it. Sure as hell can't stand being alone with Sam. It's sorta like being back in the hell-house: alone or Leoben. Hard to choose. So she doesn't, flips back and forth between the two. Hates/despises them both.

During one of her people-periods she finds Gaeta sitting in the mess. Eating all by himself at a table for one. It's such a great opportunity, she almost cheers. She sits down across from him and smiles, same smile she'd used with Leoben for months and months. Felix clearly has no idea what she can do with a fork.

Her voice is low. People grow still to listen, the silence becoming like a blanket. Some – the closest – get up and move away. Then more. Are they going to get help or to block the hatch? Will they try to stop her if she goes after Gaeta, or cheer her on? Gaeta isn't sure, either. He's sweating, eyes quickly shifting around, voice pitched in the tones of a desperate man. Good. She understands exactly what the not-knowing is like. Now Felix can learn to live with it.

Funny how Tigh's almost a buddy now. One New Caprica later, and they can stand each other just fine.

Whatever rumors are going 'round about her, the snide innuendos keep coming. She hears them screaming in the shadows ahead and behind her. Sometimes they even sound like Leoben. It's not him (probably.) Doesn't matter. She more than halfway doesn't care, want to hurts him and since she can't get to him someone else will do.

The skin over her knuckles breaks when her patience does, but beating the hell outa some guy is worth it. Who knows who he is. Just the guy who makes accusations a little too loud. No one even tries to stop her. Maybe they figure she'll turn on them. Maybe they're right.

She can still fly, at least. Remembers it without blinking. Can still do it in her sleep. It's probably the only thing left she doesn't hate. The only thing left, period.

Until Apollo takes it back. The CAG gives, the CAG takes away. Doesn't matter. She lived without flying for a long time. Didn't hasn't won't miss it. Doesn't need it. Really. 

What she really doesn't need: Kasey and Kasey's mother waiting for her in the pilots' quarters. It's not–

It's not.

She thinks about the little girl, sometimes, when she can't help it. Golden curls and laughter. Teeny-tiny hands with a fierce grip. Bright, bright eyes. Every now and then she's sure she can hear Kasey laughing. Like right now – she's in the shower and it's just the water splattering on the deck, but it sounds like – 

There's someone behind her. Leoben. Knew he'd be coming back soon. Toaster never quite understands how she “accepts” that, how she's never surprised and always ready.

Grabbing the knife she never leaves, she pivots, almost pleased to be given another chance to kill him.

It's not Leoben. It's not. It's another soldier, a big guy wearing dogtags and frozen fear. He doesn't move an inch, doesn't even blink.

She rolls her eyes and turns around, sets down the knife, goes back to rinsing out her hair, listening to the echoes of Kasey's laugh.

Later she'll be back in here, not under the water but standing infront of a mirror. Knife again in hand, looking in her own eyes for any trace of the human being/soldier the Old Man says she has to be again. (That, or find someplace else to go.)

The woman looking back at her isn't anybody she knows. What happened – or, is it about something that didn't happen? Maybe it's just too late to figure it out.

A long time ago there was a girl who wanted to be a pianist. But she couldn't have that, so she went to be a Pyramid player. But that didn't work out, so she went to be a pilot. But the war ended, so she went to be a colonist. But the Cylons came back and she got caught, so she went to be – 

Nothing.

That's what she sees in the mirror.

It wasn't always like this. Was never supposed to be like this. Did Leoben really win? Survival – that must count for something. . .

Leoben hadn't won. She'd killed him four or five times and was never killed herself. And no one but her knows what she did or didn't say. And since no one knows, maybe she can tell herself she won.

And maybe she really did.

She goes back to her quarters after the chop-job haircut. Pulls out a uniform. Takes her best-friend knife and sets it on the top shelf of her locker. She stands on her toes and pushes it all the way to the back, almost out of reach. She can't get rid of it, but she can put it away.

At least, until she needs it again.

There's a pre-flight briefing in ten minutes. When she walks into the ready-room, all the talking stops. She smiles, walks over to her old seat (which is quickly made available.)

When Apollo arrives to give the briefing, he sees her immediately. The entire room gets deadly quiet.

He curtly nods at her, doesn't order her to leave.

++++++

 

[ . . . we walk a knife-edge,  
chasms on either side of us, and we learn  
never to look down, or almost never.  
~ David Slavitt, from “Two Prophets”]

 

The desire to hurt someone (anyone) still goes with her, wherever she goes. She calls it Kain, after the Admiral Cain, which is no insult to that officer. She makes it sit in a corner and be quiet. In return she gets to fly again. Kain sits in the cockpit, gets to fly now and then. But only when it behaves.

Kain insists that she sleep with the light on. She gives in, most of the time.

One night she opens her eyes because of a hard cuff to the shoulder. Moving her arm, the light slants into her eyes, but not so much that she can't see Hot Dog standing beside her bunk.

“Wake up, Starbuck. You're waking the rest of us up.” His voice is quiet, takes the bite out of his words.

Squinting, she looks up and says, “Frak off. You wake us up all the time with what you do.”

Hot Dog doesn't say anything else, just nods and turns away.

There's something on her face. She dabs at it: tears. In the back of her mind, Kain laughs and asks if now might be a good time to find a volunteer. She makes herself wait for awhile, then gets up and leaves. Kain goes, too.

Kain's getting really hard to control.

The Old Man asks her to report to his quarters. Maybe Apollo got pissed because she went straight to Tigh about her doubts over Bulldog. Maybe the rumors have finally got so loud she's gonna be grounded again.

“I heard you've been requesting a lot of extra shifts,” the Old Man says. He doesn't ask her to sit down.

She almost sighs. The gig's up. She's going to really really miss flying. If she's lucky, they'll let her run the flight simulators. _Told you so told you so,_ Kain taunts. “Yessir.”

He still has the bumps and bruises from Bulldog's return. It doesn't lessen his unblinking gaze. “Cylons are very talented in mental manipulation. Mind games. We all know that.”

Hey, no kidding. (Of course) she doesn't say that out loud. It's probably all over her face. “Yessir.”

“I know it's still eating at you.” Not a question, a fact.

She starts to deny it, stops. Doesn't want to lie to him. Best she can manage is, “I've really been trying, sir. I really have.”

The Admiral looks away, walks over to his desk. “Mind games killed Bulldog.”

There's no good answer. He's not wrong. “I wasn't on a Baseship, and it was months, not years.” Kain goads her into adding, “And someone came back for me.”

He picks up a thin stack of papers. “Dismissed.”

So she's not grounded. But Kain isn't silent, either. And she's only allowed a certain number of extra shifts. She wants needs to get back to how she used to be. It wasn't like her life before New Caprica was perfect. She'd held it together then (mostly kinda sorta.) Hell, she'd even been married, once. Still.

Things with Sam are a frakin' mess. He wasn't isn't a mistake. She just can't handle a marriage, not to him or anyone else. But gods, she does miss him. Maybe if she tries really hard she can fix things.

Turns out the answer to that is no. No no no. It's huge that she doesn't still look at him and see Leoben. Sam says he's been patient but wants a real marriage back. Kain says to tell him his definition of “real marriage” is kinda skewed. She doesn't, even when he pushes her, challenges that maybe he just isn't what she wants anymore. It's not worth a fight, not when he's probably gonna lose either way. Kain reminds her that pain is fun, so long as it's not hers. Any target will do. Even Sam.

Or – Apollo.

There are more than a few reasons Mr. Thinks Too Much deserves a good ass-kicking. Has it coming, actually. Kain is willing to accept him as a possible target. Temporarily. 

The great thing about Apollo is, he'll fight back. Pulling punches has never been her thing. Mr. Thinks Too Much is the same (much as he'd like to pretend otherwise.) She's better at hitting weak spots. 'Course, he's been getting better at that, too. They're a good match, sometimes.

Sometimes they end up beating the hell outta each other until they're both flat on the mat. 

The not-so-little part of her looking to lash out has decided Apollo's a decent target. The best excuse ever.

Except that he's not. Somewhere between one jab and the next, she's not pissed at him anymore. Not angry. Not even hurt. Her ribs hurt like hell and she might not see straight for a week – but something on the inside gets whapped back into place, glued taped back to where it's supposed to be.

Busted nose. Three bruised ribs. Matching black eyes. She catches Lee looking at her and can just tell he's sorry. “Don't feel bad about you,” she laughs.

“Of course you don't,” Lee says, rolling his eyes.

Day after trying to kill each other, they're both drunk off their asses in the rec room. Like lots of old times. They've been doing this since the day they met. And she missed it.

Lee stops laughing for a minute, says seriously, “I was going to give them to you, you know. The antibiotics.”

She smiles. “Yeah. I know.” And that part's a lie. When she was stuck in the hell-house in those first few days, one of the only things she'd thought about was how Sam might die because Lee wouldn't cough up the meds. Because she'd fraked-up and couldn't make-up for it, even on bended knee. Couldn't blame Lee for it, either.

She believes him now. Hopes he believes her. She's already done enough damage. (Not that he didn't have it coming.)

The day after knocking each other senseless, they're both so drunk they pass out on the table in the rec room. It's the first time she's slept for more than two hours in – forever.

The hungry Kain is stuffed into the locker with the knife. Still there, but locked into a dark corner.

And she's got Lee.

++++++

 

[. . . and pause for the girl. . .  
who never learned to cry enough  
for anything that mattered. . .  
grief for what is born human,  
grief for what is not.  
~ Lucille Clifton, from “grief”]

 

It's fun to have Lee around again. Comforting, too. She can forget about things when he's around. New Caprica. A little hell-house with shatter-proof glass windows. Words to a madman.

Sam.

She loves Sam, just – differently. He's not what she needs right now. Lee is. Although it's kinda hard to keep the pieces straight.

Slowly she gets to feeling like her life's getting back to normal. Normal for her, anyway. She still loves to fly, but has stopped asking for extra shifts. Gets to bust Lee's chops. Goes back to working out with Helo (and Sharon.) Even to smiling at the Old Man when they pass in the corridor.

“What do you hear, Starbuck?”

“Nothin' but the rain.”

The Admiral smiles at her like she's said something brilliant. “Grab your gun and bring in the cat.”

There are still some things that are rough. Watching camera footage in the ready-room is a bitch. She can do it, does it regularly – then has an awful time sleeping. All her dreams are about datapads and ships exploding into bright little stars. And Leoben. She thinks maybe if she watches enough footage, the dreams will fade, kinda like the urge to beat random strangers.

Doing it on the sly doesn't last long. Lee catches her almost immediately. He's patient, waits another day before saying anything. “Want to tell me what this is about?”

“Just catchin' up on movies,” she answers, hopes he'll leave it alone.

Lee never lets anything go. He sits in the seat next to her, looks at the screen. “This is old stuff from New Caprica CAP. Nothing interesting about it.” He glances at her. “Why?”

Mixing time: time to mix together some truth with a dash of lie. Binds together best with sincerity and a strong smile. “I like to see how things looked before the Cylons showed up, fraked everything up.” It sounds believable.

Lee isn't fooled. “And?”

“And. . .” She shrugs. “In the hell-house, Leoben brought footage of Pegasus and Galactica being blown up by Baseships. Blown right out of the sky. Didn't believe it at first, but . . . this is how I'm getting things straightened out.” After a beat she adds, “I see it – a lot.”

He doesn't seem to know what to say to that. He reaches over, takes one of her hands. She yanks it back, throws herself out of her seat and stomps towards the hatch. “Don't need your pity, Major.”

“You don't have it, Captain.”

Pausing without looking back, she says, “Sorry.”

Later she'll let Lee go with her to visit Kacey. The little girl and her mother are easy to find. The minute Kacey sees her, the child holds up her arms, asking to be picked up. “Kacey, this is Lee. Can you say hello?”

Kacey's face turns towards her. The bright eyes peek at Lee from beneath golden curls.

Lee waves at her. “Nice to meet you, Kacey.”

“It's good to see you, Kara,” Kacey's mother says. “Would you mind staying with her for a few minutes? I'll be right back – just need to run an errand.”

She and Lee sit on the deck, help Kacey stack building blocks, laugh when they fall.

“You met her on New Caprica?” Lee asks as they walk away from the civilian quarters.

“Yep.” She thinks about it, then adds, “She lived with me for awhile.”

He doesn't ask any of the questions he's doubtlessly thinking. “She's a sweet little girl. Laughs a lot.”

He has no idea.

The black eyes fade. Ribs gradually stop hurting. Her nose has a permanent bump, but she doesn't mind.

Lee does whatever it is he does. So does she. But they usually end up together when they have overlapping breaks. Playing cards or hanging out with the other pilots. Sometimes she mentions Dee. He never mentions Sam.

He catches her watching camera footage again. Doesn't ask questions, just sits there silently. But after an hour or so he does say, “Maybe you should let this go.”

She snorts. If it was that easy, she'd've done it already. She waits, but he doesn't leave. Very quietly she admits, “I flinched.”

He looks at her. “When?”

She shrugs, doesn't take her eyes off the screen. “At the end. When it was almost over.”

“Anyone would have,” Lee offers.

“No,” she disagrees. She knows she didn't fight hard enough, try to escape enough, keep track of time enough. She believed lies and gave up. And it's way too late to change things now.

This is a waste of time. She gets to her feet, starts to walk away. Lee catches her hand, looks up at her steadily. “We all managed the best we could.”

Eyes closed, she turns her head. They all managed, now here they all are. What good is survival, if you don't know what to do after you survive?

All the times she'd refused to cry. . . now she can't stop it. Lee stands up, puts his arms around her. She cries cries cries like a little girl.

She hadn't won, but she'd lived. If one's better than the other, she doesn't know which.

The uncertainty doesn't end, but the dreams of exploding ships do. Mostly. Sleeping pills do the rest.

Just in time for the food shortages to start. And the real trouble with Kat to begin.

The stim-junkie had been an irritation after her return from Caprica the first time around, but after escaping from New Caprica, everything's gotten worse. She wishes she could exchange the girl for the potted plant back in the hell-house.

“What's the matter, Starbuck?” Helo laughs. “Don't like looking in a mirror? Kat's just like you.”

Not true. Which doesn't mean she wants the young pilot dead.

Kat asks to see her. Who would want to see her while they die of radiation poisoning? But she goes. The animosity between them is gone, maybe lost out there with those ships that didn't make it through. Suddenly it's like day one all over again, nugget and instructor. The student hadn't surpassed the master, but had come close.

The last (useful) thing she has to give Kat are sleeping pills. Enough for the young pilot to gently slide into forever. If she was in Kat's place, it's what she hoped someone would do for her.

Other people probably care more for Kat, but it's her responsibility to put Kat's photo on the Memorial Walls. She was Kat's training officer. Ultimately Kat's death is on her, either because she didn't teach the girl the right things, or because she did. She doesn't have any doubts about where Kat got the idea that crazy stupid brave acts can make up for mistakes. Looks at Kat's picture without blinking. She's sorry for the things she did and didn't do.

Why had she thought getting off New Caprica would be so great? Gods, if this is all they have to look forward to, then there's just no frakin' point.

She recognizes the footsteps that stop behind her. “You know, sometimes I think we're all stuck in little Cylon houses,” she tells Lee. “Some people count days. Some people try to escape. Some hold out for rescue.” She laughs a little. “The stupid ones fight because they think they might actually win.”

“Kat was a fighter.” His voice is quiet.

Past tense. It's over, then, for Kat. She regrets – 

She goes to Kat's bunk, packs up everything fast. Uniforms, equipment, anything service-issue goes back to the quatermaster. Kat hadn't been big on personal possessions. She absolutely won't have them auctioned off. Instead she takes the things to the rec room, sets each item down gently at the bar. People can just take what they want. Her respect is the last (useless) thing she has for the dead pilot.

Whatever happens to the stuff, she doesn't hang around long enough to find out.

There's a funeral and some kind words and Kat's body goes right out the airlock.

Frakin' pointless.

She really hopes when it's her turn to go, she just gets blasted into pieces in space.

Being anywhere near the officers' quarters right now is a revolting thought. Doesn't want to go to the rec room, either. It's one of her hate-people times. Since it's what loosely passes for night, the corridors are mostly empty. A quiet, dark corner is easily found. She sits in shadows and thinks about how things might have been different in another life. Resting her head on her knees, she sleeps and dreams of nothing.

The food shortage is still a bad situation, but not everyone's-gonna-die bad. Work details are organized around the clock. Pilots are rotated off CAP for supply runs. The pilots who flew escort through the storm are grounded for days (Cottle's orders.) After Kat's funeral, the inactivity makes her crazy. Sam's already down on the planet harvesting/processing/whatevering the algae. She's tired of being alone, tired of thinking, goes looking for Lee.

The CAG is working on all the stuff CAGs have to do. Schedules rotations blah blah. He looks up, waves her over. “Review these rosters with me.”

She goes over, leans on the table to look at the papers. From the corner of her eye she catches Lee watching her. “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Taking the stacks of rosters, she smacks his arm. “What?”

He smacks her back with the schedules. “Nothing.” But he's smiling.

She studies him for a minute. He only looks a few shades better than death warmed over. Maybe he thinks the same thing when he looks at her. She remembers the way he'd looked when they'd first met: no shadows in his eyes, a smile that was more than half-hearted, no sharp frown lines anywhere on his face. But that was forever ago.

“You used to smile more,” he says.

Laughing a little, she answers, “And you didn't?”

“Guess so.” He reaches up to brush the hair away from her eyes. “But you still have the same pretty eyes.”

It's not a bad way to start an affair.

Discretion is the word of the day. It's no kinda easy to keep anything quiet on a ship, buy they give it their best shot. That alone makes the entire damn thing fun. She can't exactly say the last time she felt this alive, but it's been awhile. Besides, just about everyone's totally focused on the algae planet, anyway. Kinda surprising Mr. Thinks Too Much is so far off-task.

++++++

[child, i tell you now it was not  
the animal I was hiding from,  
it was the poet in her, the poet and  
the terrible stories she could tell.  
~Lucille Clifton, from “telling our stories”]

 

It doesn't feel like a regular fling. She's had plenty of those, so she's practically an expert (and proud of it.) She's not sure if it's because of Lee, or if she's changed. Maybe both. Pieces mean more to her now than they did before the hell-house – she knows that much.

Once, they cross paths in the corridor, her on her way on-shift, him on his way off. By some slant of luck, there's no one else in the immediate area. “'Night, Major,” she laughs, casually runs a hand over his shoulder as she walks by.

Lee's quick to catch her and pull her back. “'Morning, Captain.”

And they don't get caught.

Once, she's sitting next to him on the bunk, and he catches sight of the neat scar-rows on her lower leg.

“What the hell are those?” he asks, running the thumb over the marks.

She's been really trying not to lie to him. “That's how I kept track of days in the hell-house. Not every day, obviously – I gave up after awhile.”

He's counting them, every row. Finished, he looks up at her, expression some mix of horror and grief.

“I'm kidding,” she laughs. She shouldn't have told him. “Got em' when I was a kid playing Pyramid.” It's a weak excuse, but all she can think of on the fly.

Lee doesn't look very convinced, but he goes with it. “Brat,” he says, cuffing her across the knee.

And they don't get caught.

Which is not the same thing as no one guessing what's going on.

She's pretty sure Sam has a clue. He's not a stupid guy. But he doesn't say anything, and she doesn't bring it up. And Dee – Lee doesn't ever mention her, which is significant in itself. 

It's too good to last. Lee's the one who pushes for permanence. Divorces of their spouses. Divorce isn't on the menu for her: she married Sam, and there aren't any do-overs. No divorce for her, no cheating for him. One of them's gonna break, or this – whatever this is – is going to break under its own weight. And she really doesn't want that to happen.

Things fall apart. She shoulda known better by now than to expect anything better. Hadn't kept her from hoping, though. And maybe it's complicated but it's also real.

Lee's always gone for honor and loyalty. He wants to work things out with Dee. Does. She can't be angry at him for being him. Disappointment is fair, though.

Sleeping becomes an issue again. Dreams of being locked in a house with a Cylon she kills over and over but never stays dead. Oh wait – those aren't called dreams, they're called memories.

Sam wants to work things out, too. But he says other stuff, and she just can't keep all the pieces together. Keep them where they're supposed to be. If her life was a puzzle, it'd be the one with a few pieces that don't fit and others that are just plain missing. She's like to have a new game, please, one that she might stand some chance of winning.

Leoben's voice whispers to her when she's climbing out of the cockpit. When she's in the mess. Right before she falls asleep.

While she's asleep. No more nightmares about exploding ships. Just the crazy toaster. The madman who wants her to accept her special destiny.

She thinks about the knife in the back of her locker.

Awake asleep everywhere.

It's starting to feel like she's back in the hell-house, when everything was about stupid destinies and locked doors. Helo says maybe she should see a shrink. Like she'd ever say anything to anyone who's already more fraked-up than she is. Then the Oracle, he suggests. Even as he's talking she sees something behind her. Gotta be the toaster. But turning to face it, it isn't him – it's herself from childhood, busted up and silent. Great. Look what the crazy bastard has dragged up now. Even the Oracle quotes Leoben. She just can't get away from him.

The little golden idol she takes from the Oracle is beautiful. She turns it over and over in her hands. So small, so perfect. An emblem of new starts. But the Oracle also brings up her dead mother. Hearing the Oracle parrot Leoben's words is worse than all get out. He's coming for her, according to the mystic. Like she doesn't already know that. Like he's not already here.

Sam wants her to take some time off, come and stay with him for awhile. It's not a good idea – she's not good company right now. Too many ghosts screaming for her attention. Sam's hurt and that isn't her intention. So she talks, says way way too much. Talks about her fraked-up mother. Sams says Momma messed up her head before Leoben ever got a chance. The hell-house just pushed her over the edge.

Now she hears things, sees things almost everywhere.

Out in the Viper, she sees a Heavy Raider dip into the clouds. She goes after it, misses. Comes home. Goes over every inch of the bird with flashlight and fingertips. Finds nothing. She blinks and remembers the feel of Leoben's blood on her hand, how she'd wiped it on the carpet and gone back to dinner, knowing it would never come out from under her nails. Again, now there's blood on her hand, but the Chief says it's only hydraulic fluid, happens all the time. Gods – it's not just hydraulic fluid. Except that when she rubs it between her fingers, it is. And the camera footage doesn't show a damn trace of the Raider. She didn't make it up. Did she? No.

Eating and seeping slip lower on the daily list. She's starting to feel like her life is coming unglued. The way she felt back in the hell-house. She can't escape: Leoben is with her always. Apollo's thinking about grounding her again. What the frak will she do then, when she can't get off Galactic for just a little while? She has to go to Cottle for a check-up, smiles and makes smart-ass comments, not one word about not sleeping or eating or escaping from the hell-house. At the firing range her gun jams, jams again, but when it works she puts every round in the target who is Leoben. Can kill him on paper, and even in real life, but it's useless.

Lee shows up with that look on his face – he's going to ground her like a house-plant. She comes as close as she ever gets to begging. And she she doesn't get grounded.

++++++

 

[i leave no tracks so my live loves  
can't follow. . .  
I pull my heart out of my pocket and throw it.  
~ Lucille Clifton, from “the death of thelma sayles”]

 

The Old Man and the President pass her in the corridor. She's almost around the corner when she remembers the goddess Aurora in her pocket. “For your model ship,” she explains, handing him the little golden statue.

He looks pleased, takes it and nods in satisfactions. “Good hunting,” he tells her before moving away with the President.

Up the ladder, into the cockpit – but someone's already in there, a young girl – 

Herself. Little-girl self. She's in there. Busted up face with a bloody nose.

She can't do it. Won't. She's not going back out, not with Leoben whispering in her ear and her own younger self staring up at her with misery. All she can do is climb back down the stairs, go sit under the Viper nose. Between the toaster and the girl, she knows there's something wrong. Leoben's frakin' voice drags up thoughts memories feelings about her mother, her damn mother, the woman she's managed to stuff into a little box for almost as many years as she'd had to live with the bitch. Suffering for a cause – what kinda excuse is that. More lies told by a frakin' madman. Can't be true.

It's Lee who comes to talk to her. People must think this is serious, old Starbuck's finally gone bonkers. They might be right. He tries to reassure her.

She's not going out again. She suspects she won't come back this time. Aurora: a fresh start. She'd given it away.

Lee says he'll go with her.

He doesn't understand things sometimes. This adventure – years and years of playing with Cylons – it's not going to end well.

His marriage is doing good. Better that way (maybe.) It's good he has someone to love, keep him company. She isn't the best choice. Even if she does love him more. They really are right back where they started: he's the CAG, she's the hot-shot problem pilot. Apollo and Starbuck.

“Maybe things turned out this way for a reason,” Lee offers.

“Maybe,” she echoes. Not what she really believes. She thinks about the mistakes she's made since Caprica's fall. Yeah, she'd do some things differently now, just doesn't know which ones. In the end, the most important test, to have the courage strength faith to withstand Cylons – she'd failed. Doesn't matter if no one else knows. She knows. The woman who looks back at her in the mirror knows. She'd flinched, can't find a way to live with it.

Sam'd said he wanted their “real marriage” back. What the hell does that mean? She was literally with Lee a few hours before they got married. And anytime she'd felt too crushed by the day after day of domestic bliss, she'd found someone else to curb the claustrophobia. Sam had just ignored it, left her alone, confident she'd always come back to him. And she had. But this time's different. She should've said she still loves him, much as she's able to love anything.

She can't work things out with Sam. She can't work things out with Lee. And she can't seem to outrun Leoben. Gods, she doesn't want to be special anymore, doesn't want to have a destiny or anything else. She wants to start over, all over, a clean slate.

She'll never be free. Never.

Sitting under the Viper with Lee, she thinks maybe she can accept that now. There's some little part of her that never left the hell-house, some part of the hell-house that never left her. If there's a way to change that, she doesn't know what.

She's ready to finish this life now. She's tired.

Climbing up the stairs into the cockpit, Lee looks up at her and asks, “We good?”

She smiles at him as best she can. Kind Lee, selfless Apollo – lots of her mistakes are about him. She can't even count them all on both hands. “We're good,” she assures him.

He looks like he might say more, doesn't. He turns away to find his flightsuit and gear up.

Wearily she resists the impulse to call out that she loves him. Instead she settles into the cockpit and starts pre-flight checks.

It's been awhile since just the two of them flew patrol. Long time. She missed it. They've kinda switched roles: he chatters across the line, fills the empty silence with his steady voice, and she listens, makes an occasional comment. If she concentrates, Lee's voice can almost beat out everything else. She revisits Hot Dog's idea, turns the Viper upside down to better see the clouds. Through the shatter-proof glass of the hell-house, there'd been a small slice of sky between the buildings. She'd looked up and tried to hold onto what flying in clouds and stars felt like.

In a tiny quiet corner of her mind, she knows there's a Leoben out there somewhere looking for her. 

Some Raider shows up again. His ass is hers and when she dumps it back on the hanger deck, she's gonna cut out the brain just for fun. Apollo can't see it, looses sight of her, too, but she doesn't need help.

Even while hunting the Raider, she thinks about her old apartment, the real one she'd split with Zak, how it was before the toaster got ahold of it. But of course Leoben's there. He talks different this time. Says way more things that even make a little sense. Says she's danced on the edge of darkness for a long time, he claims, 'cause she wanted a chance to start over. Has wanted that for a long time. It's true and they both know it.

Her mother comes back. She replays scenes from yesterday, a long time back. How nothin' was ever quite good enough. Accusations of being special, quitting, fraking-up. Even then, she'd been so hurt her mother had cancer, so hurt the only thing her mother had ever done was anger and bitterness.

The woman dies alone, waiting for her to come back. She hadn't. If she could do it again, she might. No, she would. Because dying alone after a lifetime alone isn't right.

At the end, Momma says she can do whatever comes next. Because death means being free, really free, starting anew.

This Leoben isn't the real Leoben. This Leoben is kind. Sounds like the only thing he wants is her to be free. Not locked in a hell-house. Free.

Apollo's yelling at her. He can't find her, but he's there. She's not alone, not afraid. This is her chance to be free.

How beautiful.

She's going to see Lee on the other side. It's not that kinda forever, leaving now. “Just let me go,” she says softly.

He swears, tells her she better come back right now. Because it's him, she almost pulls the ejection seat lever. Almost stays. No – no. “It's okay. They're waiting for me.” And they are, all those souls who left her behind.

This isn't escaping. It's being human.

In her mind she sees her childhood self, calm and smiling, eyes closed.

She smiles and closes her eyes.

 

[Both feet flat, the game is done.  
They think I lost. I think I won.  
~ Maya Angelo, from “Harlem Hopscotch”]

[end]


End file.
